Another Saint Gone Home
I t is with sadness that I say that my grandfather, Earl Fish, passed away this week. When I think back to my earliest memories of him, I think of a time at church. It’s always nice when your memories of someone involve church, but this was a frightening time for me. My grandparents were sitting behind my mother. I remember being lifted over the back of the pew. I must have been between one and two years old. Even with my mother only a few feet away, I suppose I thought I’d never see her again. Despite the rough start, I have so many good memories. I remember helping him on various projects. He always wanted to pay me, and it was always more than I thought I deserved for the little work I did. I helped him build a house, hail hay, split wood, and feed the cattle. We went fishing. We built fences. I don’t remember what the occasion was, but I remember staying with him at the cabin, just him and me, one night. He fixed soup. And I don’t mean he just heated up a can of soup. It was th...